


ain't no rest for the wicked

by naruhoe



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: ARGH, Fugue Feast, Gen, are drabbles the only thing i can write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7500411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhoe/pseuds/naruhoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fugue is a time of sanctioned anarchy. The righteous Overseer removes his mask for a chance to smoke, or drink, or follow a girl from The Cat back to her room. The common man drinks himself into a stupor, and wakes the next day to find his shoes have been stolen from his feet, and the street urchin who begs at the corner of Clavering wears a brand new pair of boots, several sizes too big.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ain't no rest for the wicked

The Fugue is a time of sanctioned anarchy. The righteous Overseer removes his mask for a chance to smoke, or drink, or follow a girl from The Cat back to her room. The common man drinks himself into a stupor, and wakes the next day to find his shoes have been stolen from his feet, and the street urchin who begs at the corner of Clavering wears a brand new pair of boots, several sizes too big. 

* * *

 The first year Corvo arrives in Dunwall, there are  _fireworks_ in the sky above the Boyle Manor. It is midnight, and the other men-at-arms, still wary of this swarthy newcomer, mostly ignore him as they depart in high spirits for the streets. Corvo sits and watches the fireworks light the sky in explosions of color. They fade to glowing sparks, and leave the scent of gunpowder on the wind. Eventually, his rumbling stomach forces him out into the city.  

Corvo keeps his purse close, and his blade closer. The Fugue is the perfect environment for pickpockets and cutpurses. They dart through the crowd, murmuring apologies to flustered nobles as their hands flash, removing purses and watches, jewelry, and even hair ornaments. Corvo carefully counts out the exact amount of coin for a meat pie a vendor is selling, and wanders the streets as he finishes his food. 

The docks are curiously empty of ships and sailors. Windows are shuttered and doors locked. No children are seen, save for the orphan population, which mingles with the crowds with outstretched hands. Corvo presses a coin of 5 into the hands of a girl urchin who can't be more than 7, and smiles as her unwashed face lights up.  

He passes a pair rutting like dogs in heat within the shadows of an alley, and is startled to see that they are both men. He quickens his pace, a flush rising to his cheeks. Such things are condemned by the Abbey year round, but during the Fugue, social conventions and rules are overturned. Scenes like this are quickly becoming common across the city as the night wears on, and Corvo finds himself approached by no less than 4 complete strangers lured by the prospect of sharing heat with another living being. When he returns to the barracks, they are empty.

 * * * 

Daud hates the Fugue. Of course, he hates anything associated with The Abbey, but the Fugue especially. Everyone is drunk, or high, or both, and half of his men quietly disappear from their bunks to participate in the debauchery below. However, with it, the Fugue brings unique opportunity and easy money. During those two days, Daud pays handsomely for even the simplest jobs. A quiet incentive, as it were. 

It is the second and last of the Fugue. His target is a certain noble, who is already well on his way to becoming spectacularly smashed. Daud has forgone the trademark red coat and bandolier in favor of commoner's clothing, all the better to blend in with the crowds. He wears a simple, blank mask, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up past his elbows. A laughing woman resplendent in a peacock feather mask presses a kiss to his cheek as he passes. The white of his mask bears a faint, red kiss as he slips several drops of poison sweet into the mark's drink. 

The target dies suffocating minutes later, and Daud is long gone.

* * *

The Fugue is a time of sanctioned anarchy. The Overseer has replaced his golden mask, and the common man nurses a pounding hangover. The High Overseer stands devout in his red coat before Holger Square, and decrees that it is a new year, the first day of the Month of Earth. Urchins beg on their street corners, and pickpockets continue their trade. The fishermen go back to their boats to comb the sea, and the sailors to their ships to hunt the great leviathan. The nobles arrive in tittering droves back from their countryside mansions. It is as it has always been.

**Author's Note:**

> Another drabble.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated, lovely reader.


End file.
